


slow and sweet

by chanterie



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, excessive parentheticals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4926073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanterie/pseuds/chanterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they start because catherine is horribly shy and occasionally more awkward than she can stand. (cullen finds it terribly endearing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	slow and sweet

Their friendship truly begins because Catherine is terribly shy and Cullen is terribly blunt. She quickly learns that when things are confusing and she’s fairly certain she’s stepped in it, she can go to him and trust that he won’t faff about with double-talk and try to reassure her just because she’s  _the Herald of Andraste_. (Which is awfully strange to think about, even months later.)

It’s the comfort she feels in his presence that lets her make tentative advances when she’s in Haven. (His scar is captivating and when he smiles, it’s like the sun shining right in front of her. How can she not be infatuated?) And it’s his steady presence at her back along with her inner circle that allows her to keep taking painful step after painful step as they scout for something she can barely hope exists.

(She’s got no reason to distrust Solas, of course. He’s been a wonderful conversational partner and she’s envious of the ease with which he interacts with the Fade. His ability to dream history is something she will always covet. But Haven has left her so  _tired_  that hope seems like the summer birds that never show themselves in the Frostbacks.)

Cullen is the one to talk her down from her ledge when things get to be too much and she, in turn, becomes someone he can lean on. It’s nice, to have someone she can be so close to again. And it’s especially nice because he understands why sometimes she just needs to get  _away_. People are draining; sometimes she just needs a place to sit, think, and find her feet again.

His loft becomes a haven. It’s a place where she can curl up with a book, once she gets two chairs dragged up there, and hide from her responsibilities for an hour or two. It’s a place where she can sit with her best friend (the man she so desperately wants to kiss sometimes that she feels her face may catch fire from how she flushes) and relax, drinking strong Fereldan tea with a shot of whiskey and reading Genitivi’s latest.

(It’s a place where she can pretend to read Genitivi’s latest and not worry about being called out on the fact that she hasn’t turned a page in the past fifteen minutes because she’s too wrapped up in her own head. Sometimes, there are things she needs to think through. Sometimes, she works herself into a tizzy.)

“Could you–” she starts late one night, breaking the silence and startling Cullen so badly he snorts tea up his nose. 

As he coughs, Catherine scrambles out of her chair to retrieve a handkerchief from the pocket of her coat and hand it to him. He mumbles his thanks and wipes his face. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Her courage or her lack of good sense, whichever it was that got her started, goes flying out the window. Her arms wrap themselves around her middle as she looks determinedly at his left knee. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“Catherine–” Cullen puts down the reports he was reading and shifts so he can lean forward in his chair, trying to catch her eye. “It’s clearly something.”

She fidgets, shifting from foot to foot before she blurts out all in a rush. “I care for you. Quite a bit. And I know you left the templars (you’re really quite emphatic about that, I don’t know how anyone ever forgets you left the templars) but–could you ever see me as anything more than just a mage?”

There’s no looking at his face when her own is burning so badly; she braces herself for the let-down. All the breath leaves him in a loud  _whoosh_. Catherine closes her eyes as he starts talking. “I could–I mean, I do. Think of you. And what I might say in this sort of situation.”

“What’s stopping you?” Catherine asks. And then immediately bites her lower lip because she doesn’t want to know. Except in all the ways she does. Needs to, even, in case it makes the sting of rejection easier to deal with.

Cullen calls her name quietly and reaches out with gentle hands to grasp hers, pry them away from her white-knuckled grip on her elbows. “You’re the Inquisitor,” he says, thumbs rubbing circles on her wrists. “We’re at war and–and a million other excuses I could come up with that all boil down to I didn’t know what to say. How to start. I don’t–”

He pauses, clears his throat, and Catherine chances a glance at him, then. There’s a lovely flush crawling from his ears, across his face and down his neck to disappear beneath his shirt. (She wonders how far down that flush goes.) He’s embarrassed, she realizes.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted anyone in my life. And I don’t have much experience in these matters,” he confesses.

A slow smile dawns on Catherine’s face. “I don’t either.”

Cullen looks back up at her and returns her smile. It lights up the room better than the abundance of candles. (Oh, she sounds like one of Cassandra’s awful serials.) “No, I suppose you don’t.”

Her hands turn until she can thread her fingers through his. “I would very much like to kiss you,” she says softly.

“I would very much like you to kiss me,” Cullen replies, gently squeezing her hands and tilting his face up to make it easier for her to lean down.

The first touch of her lips upon his can barely be called a kiss. It’s a soft, hesitant brush of lips that’s there one second and gone the next. The next press is firmer, though still shy. (She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but the intimacy of the moment sends butterflies fluttering in her stomach.) Cullen lets go of one hand to rest his palm on her hip and pull her a little closer. They shift, and the angle is different, and suddenly Catherine understands why kissing while moving mouths is so much better than a simple peck.

By the time the guard rotation opens the doors to the office below so they can walk back to the keep proper, Catherine is practically in Cullen’s lap. Though the slow sweetness of the kiss hasn’t changed, she finds herself short of breath and her heart races like one of Dennet’s finest.

She pulls back from him to rest her forehead against his and can’t help the giddy smile and laugh. He hauls her the rest of the way into his lap and holds her close, looking completely content. It’s a good look on him and one Catherine endeavors to make him wear more often. “That was…” he shakes his head, at a loss for words.

“It was,” Catherine agrees, relaxing into his embrace. Her nose brushes against his. She can feel his heart beating beneath her palm. She feels safe. Happy. Completely and utterly at ease.

And she can’t even object when Cullen picks up his reports again. Not when she’s itching to actually read her book, now that this worry is gone from her mind. With tea and tome in hand, she rests her head against Cullen’s shoulder and relaxes.


End file.
